


I think you might be one of us

by beebebutterfinger



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Gaby, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Girl Power, Maybe an original charaters, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Possible Character Death, Some German, Taking prompts/ideas, To Be Continued, gallya, not quite finished yet, please be kind, super ambitious second fan fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-08-30 21:08:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8549185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beebebutterfinger/pseuds/beebebutterfinger
Summary: She grips the computer disk, tightly in her hand. The incomplete work of her father lies just beneath her slender fingers. She knows it’s not what he wants, but it’s enough to get him to trust her; enough to get her foot in the door. It’s enough to get her a meeting with him. She knows what she's doing is wrong but her mind is clouded by love, he knows, that's why he pulled him back to begin with. He had been following them for months, and had known the ins and outs of their relationship before they even realized what they had. He knows women are stupid when in love. That women can and will do drastic things. Even if it means betraying the people she loves. She just hopes Illya, Solo and Waverly will understand.  Gaby betrays multiple people, but her reason for doing so is not as obvious as you'd think.





	1. Betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> I am a total Gaby/Illya shipper. After reading most of the stories on here, I came up with my own idea. I  
> need to mention that I am at the complete mercy of Google Translate when it comes to Russian, so PLEASE let me know if something is spelled incorrectly, or if the grammar or word usage is WAY OFF. 
> 
> Also, as a side note, I am not a writer, or historian, so I will try to keep this as historically accurate and as grammatically correct as possible. I will also try my hardest to make sure everything makes sense to everyone, and everything is tied up neatly in a pretty bow by the end.

She sits alone in a cold, dark, gray room. A fluorescent pendent light hangs from the ceiling over a cold steel table accented by two chairs. All she can hear is the soft buzzing of the lamp, which is swaying almost undetectably above her, caught in the breeze of the air vent on the wall to her right. There’s a large solid metal door to her left, a small shadow being cast by the poorly lit room. Her back aching from sitting on the metal chair for what feels like a lifetime. It hard to tell how long she’s been kept here, there are no windows to indicate the time of day. She was never one to being left waiting. Normally she grew too antsy, too impatient, and would cause a scene, or attract the attention of passing guards. But this time, she can do nothing but wait. She needs to keep her composure, or she’ll risk loosing everything. 

She grips the computer disk, tightly in her hand. The incomplete work of her father lies just beneath her slender fingers. She knows it’s not what he wants, but it’s enough to get him to trust her; enough to get her foot in the door. It’s enough to get her a meeting with him. She knows what she's doing is wrong but her mind is clouded by love, he knows, that's why he pulled him back to begin with. He had been following them for months, and had known the ins and outs of their relationship before they even realized what they had. He knows women are stupid when in love. That women can and will do drastic things. Even if it means betraying the people she loves. She just hopes Illya, Solo and Waverly will understand. 

Waverly! He had sent her on a simple recon mission, normally these missions were reserved for sleeper agents hidden within the walls of the Iron Curtain, but when Gaby had volunteered, well more like forced, her way into this mission, Waverly couldn't say no. He knew she missed him, and just wanted to see him, so he sent her in, with the stern warning that any contact was prohibited, and would be punished. Waverly had trusted her with this mission, to be clean and quick, undetectable. He'd never trust her again, she knew that, she was betraying him, and his country, but she had to. 

The door creaks open, pulling Gaby from her thoughts. In steps a dark haired ominous figure. It’s a face that she’d only seen in grainy photos of dossiers; a short stocky man, with dark eyes and a scowl. His eyes are darker than she had remembered, and he’s shorter and rounder than she expected. Extra lines can be seen around his eyes, and a permanent frown has been etched into is cheeks. His steps are heavy as he stomps over to the chair opposite her. The screeching noise of the chair across the concrete makes her eyes narrow and her lips purse. 

“Miss Teller,” he growls. His eyes sternly concentrated on her. 

She flinches slightly at his blatant disregard of her title as an agent. “Comrade,” she nods. 

She knew he wouldn’t trust her. Who could blame him? She was an East German defector working for an allied country as a spy. Not to mention she was a woman. Something she knew he would never forgive her for being. She was second-class in his eyes. She should have known he wouldn’t give her the respect she deserved, but somehow it still infuriated her. She was an agent, Verdammt! And he should at least acknowledge that.  
She could feel her jaw tightening, her breath quickening. Being this close to him made her blood boil. She knew what a low life he was. How demanding he had been of Illya. How ruthless he could be. He was the one, after all, who had sent Illya to capture her to begin with. The man who had put a bounty on her life. She wanted to strangle him, bash his head in with her fists. Make him pay for all of the pain he had caused to Illya, to her. But she couldn’t. She had a job to do, and letting his actions dictate her anger was not going to help her. 

A dark silence falls over the room. The buzzing from the light fills Gaby’s ears. Out of her peripheral, she can see shadows under the door. She knows that a team of KGB agents wait just outside the door. Ready to jump at the slightest noise. They are there for his protection, and his alone. Her eyes fall from his face, down his shoulders, falling towards his hands; the left, resting lightly on the table before them. His right is placed suspiciously below the table. 

“нет необходимости в пистолете (There is no need for the gun),” She coos softly in Russian, the snarky undertone unable to mistake. “Ваши сотрудники убедились, что я не представляет угрозы для вас (Your officers have made sure that I am of no threat to you).” She lifts her hands upwards, gesturing towards the handcuffs encircling her wrists. A sly, almost smirk, painted on her face. 

Oleg snarls as he looks her up and down, but releases his pocketed pistol and places his hands on the table. His eyes fall on her soft yellow mod dress, which accented her darkened tan skin. Illya always picked bright warm colors, said it mad her skin glow, and her eyes pop. This had been his favorite dress on her. She’s not dressed for Oleg’s liking, to modern and westernized for his tastes. “Это как для нашей защиты , Вы понимаете (It’s for both our protection, you understand),” he chants, trying to disguise his disapproval. 

“Of course,” she says, switching to English, tilting her head in understanding. “I hope you don’t mind continuing this conversation in English, Comrade. My Russian has never been very good.”

He nods, conceding to her request. “Where is the disk?”

Raising her cuffed hands, she holds it out in the middle of the table; tightly incasing it between her palm and her fingers. 

Oleg goes to grab it, but Gaby quickly pulls it back to her abdomen, making a low tsking sound with her tongue, shaking her head. She may be betraying her country, Waverly and Solo, but she is not going to be stupid about it. “Not so fast, Comrade.”

Oleg’s eyes grow darker. His body stiffens with disapproval, his jaw locking in rage. “Why have you come here, Miss Teller, if not to freely give over your fathers work?”

Meeting his eyes, a glimmer of tears lining the water lines of her eyes, “Sir?”

A crooked smile sprawls over his face, danger flashing behind his eyes. “You want to join KGB? Swear allegiance to USSR? Betray the man who saved you and your American collogue? But why?"

She gulps slowly, never losing eye contact, “Because America cannot gain the upper hand. They are a reckless country; too wild and ostentatious, too…selfish,” A slow and steady breath releases from her lips. “I know Russia, will protect the interests of the rest of the world.”

His smile grows more crooked, giving her a small nod of approval. “A wise choice, Miss Teller.”

She was raised behind the curtain. It’s easy for her to regurgitate the lies that had been beaten into her. The propaganda was pasted to every flat surface. The reporters told of the good Russia was doing, it was for the good of the people. The oppression, the beatings, the rules; it was all for the good of the people, the world. The repetitive nature of their lies helped make her lying easier. It was like a ballet recital, it flowed fluidly through her bones. The fluidity of her believable deceit, was caused by repetition of seeing their own. 

“And Agent Waverly? You’re willing to betray him? After what he saved you?”

Gaby’s eyes grow narrow; he is testing her, needs to know where her allegiances lay. Sucking in a deep breath she raises her chin. “I am loyal to the true cause, the correct way of life. I am loyal to Russia. Not a man who thought he was saving me,” she spat.

Oleg’s smile fades. She knows he's not used to being talked to this way, especially by a women, and most definitely not by a defector. Her eyes grow softer; her breath becomes more even, her shoulders hunch and her chin lowers. She knows Oleg is watching her every move. She needs him to believe her. With a defeated sigh she says, “I don’t, and didn’t, need saving.”

The smile reappearing across his jaw, “I see why he trusted you. You are strong. Wise. He has good judgment. Like mine.” 

Gaby heart beats hard within her chest. Her fingers tighten around the disk and her nails dig into her palm. Listening to Oleg talk about Illya like this makes her jaw tighten. He seems proud of him, like he’s proud of this thing he’s made, a thing he controls. Not like a father, but like a puppet master. She cringes to think of Illya like a puppet; he’s a person with his own beliefs, his own actions, and his own thoughts. But she knows Oleg will never see him as more than a pawn in his game of chess. 

"So, Comrade, do you want the disk or not?" 

He retains his smile, "Name your terms, Miss Teller."


	2. Cheers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya learns of Gaby's disappearance and catches up with a long lost friend.

The night air nips at him as he strides across the quite streets. The gas lamps burn quietly, their glow flickering in the cool sea breeze coming from the bay below. The only sound he can hear is the sounds of his shoes hitting the pavement below. The crisp white walls of the buildings around him perfectly reflected the light of the moon. It was the perfect accent to the deep blue water that lay below. It really was a beautiful island, and if he were not currently on a mission, he would have been able to properly take in the sites around him. However, he appreciated his marks decision to defect here. It was unmistakably like a glorious vacation. 

Illya stalked inwards, towards the middle of the island, allowing the sea to fade behind him. His body was tired, and his muscles were stiff. The defector he was looking for hadn’t gone to the docks today, causing Illya to sit cramped inside of a fishing boat for hours, where he had hoped to catch the defected Ukrainian diplomat. Illya stretched his shoulders and his neck, making sure to take long strides to loosen his sore quad muscles as he padded around the city. 

After a few minutes he reach a small white building, which glowed yellow in the soft light given off by the gas lamps. Climbing the stairs around back, Illya slowly unlocked the small wooden door and stepped into his apartment. It was a small space, a few furnishings littered the floor; a small couch, a table with a rickety wooden chair, where his chess set lays, a small kitchenette lay to the left, and a bed off to the right, next to the door to the bathroom. Closing the door behind him, Illya stomped over to the couch and collapsed, sighing heavily. His body was exhausted, and he was soon overcome with the need to sleep. 

Just as Illya was about to succumb to the peaceful lull of sleep, the toilet flushes. Illya jumps up from his spot of the couch, pulling his pistol from its holster and aiming it at the door.Creeping over to the door and stands to the left of it, waiting for the person to immerge from inside. He watches as the handle twists and the door opens. As the man passes him, Illya reaches around him and sweeps one of his arms under the arm of the mans right arm as his other arm reaches across the mans neck. He locks in his chokehold, as the man squirms underneath him. 

“Peril,” comes a strangled voice, “Jesus, let go, it’s me.”

The gurgling sound hits his ears, and it takes him a moment to realize who he’s just captured, quickly dropping the man, he lets him fall to the floor, coughing and gasping for breath.

“Cowboy?” Illya asks with a furrowed brow. “Блядь (fuck).”

Finally, being able to pull in a deep breath, the man sits back on his ankles, looking up at Illya, who has walked around to the table to flip on the gas lamp sitting on the table, filling the room with a soft yellow glow. “Jesus, Peril. You trying to kill me?” The soft light from the gas lamp gave Solo a warm hue to his skin.

“Maybe I should have,” sneered Illya, turning to face him, “what are you doing here?”

Adjusting his suit, Solo turns his gaze up to Illya. “What, a friend can’t just drop in on a friend?” He questioned mockingly, a smirk appearing on his face.

Illya’s eyes frowned as he crossed his hands over his chest and stared at the man sitting on the floor. He hadn’t seen Solo in over 3 months, not after he had returned to Moscow on Oleg’s orders; disbanding the hodge-podge U.N.C.L.E. team. 

Slowly rising to his feet and combing his hair with his fingers, Solo’s cheeky smile faded. There was a concerned look in his eyes, and Illya noticed a permanent furrow in his brow. With a heavy sigh, Solo’s eyes met Illya’s, “We’ve lost her.” 

Solo’s words hit him like a bullet. His heart sank. A ball of guilt and loathing plummeted in his gut, as his hands began to tremble against his chest. What did he mean ‘lost her’? How could they have ‘lost her’? He had trusted them to protect her, keep her safe, be the person he wanted to be, but couldn’t. His eyes grew wide, and he could feel the prickling of anger course through his veins. His jaw locked tight and his teeth ground against each other. “You what?!” he growled taking a stepping towards him. Rage was always his first response, but quickly it was replaced by unbearable and debilitating fear. She was lost, his Gaby. They had lost her, but somehow, it was his fault. His fault for leaving her. His steps halted, and he stood like a giant statue staring at Solo.

Sensing the impending danger, Solo took a tentative step backwards. He looked like a kicked puppy. His eyes full of regret as his head hung heavy on his neck. “Waverly sent her to Moscow,” he spoke quickly, trying to defend him self, “to collect information, discreetly of course. She was there for 36 hours when her tracking device went dead. She’s made no contact. Not even Waverly’s sleepers have been able to locate her.” 

Illya swayed slightly where he was frozen. His legs felt heavy; his heart throbbed in his chest. He gulped slowly, staring at Solo. He needed more information. 

“They went to her safe house,” he said tentatively. “They found her tracking devise, the one Waverly had in her shoe, as well as her clothes, and jewelry. And the information she had been sent to collect. There was no sign of a struggle. She just vanished.” Solo shrugged. His eyes swept the room, surveying the small space, probably looking for a quick escape route. “It’s been 2 weeks since the last contact. Waverly has sent me to you. You’re his last hope to find her.” 

Illya gulped again. His mind was clouded. He couldn’t think. All he heard was “we’ve lost her” and “she just vanished” over and over in his brain. Gaby had always been somewhat hard to control. Illya himself had lost her in Istanbul 2 years ago. But she had returned a couple hours later, unharmed and smelling of expensive perfume and liquor. But 2 weeks? Illya’s head throbbed. It was swimming with all the information, albeit limited, it was too much for him to handle. He closed his eyes, Gaby’s big brown ones appeared behind his eyelids. Beautiful and warming; like rich dark chocolate. 

“Peril?” Solo questioned. 

Snapping from his thoughts, Illya’s eyes found Solo’s. “Her ring?” He stuttered. 

With a coy smile behind his eyes, “the one from Rome? She still has it?” His cocky smirk instantly detectable in his voice, though his face did not betray it. 

Illya nodded, a small kindle of hope ached in his chest as Solo shook his head, “It wasn’t recovered. You think she still has it?”

With another nod, Illya spoke, almost too softly for Solo to hear, “I told her to keep it close. So I could always find her. She would not take it off.” 

“Can you track her from here?” Solo seemed hopeful. 

Illya shook his head. “нет (No), but if she was last in Moscow, I can find her.”

“Great!” Solo clapped his hands together, “ I’m coming with you. Can’t let you get all the credit for finding her. When do we leave? This place is a little…small” he quipped, while looking around the room again.

Illya shook his head again. “нет, not this time Cowboy. It is too dangerous. For you…” he sighed, “for her. I must go in alone, it will cause less alarm. I will find her. Обещаю (I promise).” 

Solo’s brow furrowed and his lips pursed into a straight line, he looked ready to argue, but stopped short. “well,” he paused. Illya could see his words being chosen carefully behind his eyes. “If I’m not allowed to come with, how can I help?”  
_______________________________________________

The cool breeze flows over Illya’s tall frame as he stands over the man on the ground, who’s writhing in pain. Illya glares at the him. Quickly closing the gap between them, Illya raises his gun and pulls the trigger. The once active figure falls limp, a dark puddle appearing underneath it.

Solo steps out behind a pile of crates that have been left on the dock. “Damn, Peril.” 

Illya scowls, looking over to Solo. “What Cowboy? Never killed a man?” 

Solo’s sudden irritation can be seen instantly. Moving over the man, Solo checks his pockets, and finds a small pistol, holding it up to Illya. “Ready?” Solo asks, nonchalantly pointing the barrel at Illya’s left shoulder. 

Sucking in a deep breath, Illya nods, almost undetectably, and squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to look at Solo’s happy gleam. He knows he’ll enjoy shooting him more than anything else. He inhales a deep breath and Solo pulls the trigger. 

A deep radiating pain shoots up his arm and neck. Illya gasps and crumples to his knees. No matter how many times he’s been shot, he always forgets how crippling the pain can be. Illya staggers to his feet, while Solo’s torso embeds its self next to his.

“This way my friend.” Solo says as he leads him to the black GAZ 21 Volga sitting just meters away. 

Throwing Illya in the passengers seat, Solo walks casually over to the drivers side, while Illya pulls a handkerchief from his coat and stuffs it in the seeping bullet wound. Solo turns over the engine, drives off towards his apartment. Pulling every ounce of strength he can muster, Illya coolly exits the car and climbs the stairs, falling into the small room; Solo following close behind him. 

Grabbing the phone from its place in the special suitcase, he calls Oleg. He can see Solo strutting over to the kitchen counter and pulling a bottle of Ouzo from the cupboard. 

“Это полный (It’s complete).” 

“Хорошо (Good),” comes a stern voice from the other end. “перейти к местоположению мертвой капли для вашего следующего задания (proceed to the dead-drop location for your next assignment)” 

“Сэр (Sir),” Illya manages to get in before the line is cut, “Я был расстрелян. Я буду нуждаться в медицинской помощи (I’ve been shot. I will need medical assistance).” 

A low growl comes through the speakers. “Как плохо (How bad)?” 

Illya swallows slowly. He knows he shouldn’t be asking for help, or time off, but he needs to get back to Moscow. “Левое плечо. Пуля еще внутри (Left shoulder. Bullet still inside),” he knows complaining or over exaggerating will not help his case. Oleg always responds better to cold hard facts. A long pause passes as Illya breathes as steadily as he can, grimacing against the pain shooting down his arm and across his neck. 

“Перейдите к мертвой капли. Пребывание близко к этой линии. Я пошлю слово в ближайшее время (Proceed to the dead-drop. Stay close to this line. I’ll send word soon).” There’s a click, and the line goes dead. 

Illya slouches into the couch. His breath slow and ragged as Solo drops beside him on the couch. “You need to leave cowboy,” Illya speaks through clenched teeth. 

“In a minute my giant friend. There is always time for one last drink,” Solo says passing a glass to Illya. Raising the bottle to his glass, Solo chimes, “Твоё здоровье!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Твоё здоровье! is a Russian toast meaning "Your Health". I hope you can find the humor in it. 
> 
> Again, sorry for any of the Russian being completely wrong.
> 
> Illya is in Santorini, which is a Grecian Island. It's absolutely breathtaking.


	3. Missing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I had it written a while back, but I hadn't had time to post it. Please let me know what you think. 
> 
> Also, please note that the conversations you are reading would be in Russian, however, I do not know Russian, and it would just be really stupid to put both Russian and English dialogue in this chapter. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

Illya returned to Moscow, two days later. Carrying out his usual routine, he stalked to his apartment. He knows he cannot be too hurried to find Gaby; he has to make his reappearance “normal”. This means following the usual habits he has after he arrives home from his missions. 

His apartment is dusty and stale. He’s only been back a handful of times in the last 2 years, and it clearly shows it. His left arm hanging in a sling, gradually pulling off his coat and depositing it on the coat rack by the door, Illya pads over to the bedroom to deposit his suitcase. He pulls his uniform from the armoire and lays it on his bed. It takes him longer to dress than he cares to admit. The sharp stabbing pain in his shoulder aching at the slightest movements was ever present in his mind as he dressed. 

After threading the buttons on his jacket, which was a feat he was proud of, he fixed his hair in the small cracked mirror that hung on the wall. He than secured the sling over his left arm again; the Grecian doctors having pulled the bullet from it just 24 hours before. Thankfully Cowboy had a knack for human anatomy and had expertly placed the shot, avoiding bone and many of the major muscles in his arm. He stood up straight and look at his reflection, scrutinizing his appearance with a fine toothcomb. 

While smoothing out the wrinkles the sling had caused in his jacket, Illya heard the sharp knock against the door. Placing the hat upon his head, he turns swiftly to open the door, his left hand awkwardly holding his pistol. 

“Сэр, (Sir)” Illya spoke, straightening his posture, and removing his gun with his right hand. Illya moved quickly to the side as Oleg gestured to come in.   
His heavy footsteps echoed through the room. Closing the door Illya straighten again. His back stood stiff, and his right arm fell expertly to his side. Oleg surveyed the room while removing his hat and over coat, gently passing them over to Illya to hang on the coat rack. Complying, Illya turned away while Oleg made himself comfortable on the plush green sofa. 

“Good evening Kuryakin,” Oleg sneered. “Glad to have you home.”

Illya stared at Oleg. This wasn’t the first time he had been to Illya’s apartment, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last, but something about him being here made Illya more uncomfortable than he’d like to admit. Shifting slightly where he stood, his posture still on point. “Glad to be home, Comrade.” 

Illya’s words felt heavy in his mouth. Truth be told, this was no longer home. Home was now found in the tawny colored arms of a petite ballerina turned mechanic. He’d never known just how safe he had felt with her until he had been thrown back into the life he was forced to live. He missed the warmth of her skin, and the tickle of her hair against his chin. He missed the way her chest rose and fell against his, and the soft feather like touch of her eyelashes against his neck. He longed to be home. 

“I hear that you will make a full recovery. Lucky the Ukrainian’s are bad shots,” Oleg smirked. 

Illya nodded, “I will do my best to be better as quickly as possible.”

“Good,” Oleg nodded in return, rubbing his hands together,” good. But until than, you will be assigned to mission details for Ivanov, Kuznetsov and Arshavin.”

Illya nodded sharply. He couldn’t stand these men. Always bickering at who was a better agent, or who could seduce the most women. It was infuriating to Illya. They were too busy competing with each other that they would forget to do simple tasks during their missions, like forgetting their gloves, or leaving the get away car running. He knew this was Oleg’s punishment for getting shot. It was one of the more lenient punishments Illya had ever received, but he could still feel the sharp sting of disappointment. Being assigned to mission details was as bad as a chef being told to do the dishes; it was beneath him. 

“And once that is healed,” Oleg quipped, gesturing to his shoulder, “I want you to refresh your fighting techniques, you seem to have forgotten how to unarm even the simplest of people.”

Illya nodded weakly, lowering his eyes to the floor. Even now, he hated being a disappointment to Oleg. He hated how much control Oleg had over him, but he couldn’t help but want to please him. 

“You have a debriefing tomorrow, 8:00 AM, sharp,” Oleg’s cold features seemed to be locked on his face. “We will need to hear exactly how you managed to become injured.”

A snarky, Napoleon-like thought popped into his brain, fighting the urge to remark, Illya nodded obediently. 

Oleg rose from his spot on the couch and motioned for Illya to retrieve his coat and hat. Illya complied and shifted to the side of the door, ready to open it as Oleg treaded heavily towards it. “Oh, I almost forgot,” Oleg said, turning on his heal halfway out the door. “I received a call from MI6 earlier today. It appears that one of the partners you had during your days at U.N.C.L.E. is…missing.” 

Illya’s heart stopped. His eyes fixed on the dangerous smirk on Oleg’s lips; Illya did not like it when Oleg mentioned his U.N.C.L.E. partners, it made him feel uneasy. His hand trembled slightly against the door. “An Agent Teller, he said. Young girl. You know the one, the defector, the one you failed to keep in East Berlin.” The sound of disgust dripped for Oleg’s lips. “She was reported MIA during her last mission. They are bound to declare her dead soon. Killed in Action, probably.”

Illya was frozen in place; his body stiffer than it had been before, and his jaw clenching tight. 

“He seemed to think you’d want to know,” he mocked, raising his eyebrows. “Hopefully for us, she’s dead. One less person we’d have to keep an eye on. Right, Kuryakin?” 

Illya couldn’t think straight. His vision was blurred with red and his eyes burned with the prickling of tears. His heart was a lead weight in his chest. Fortunately, his body didn’t display the rage and devastation. It stayed stiff and ridged, the way they had trained him. With a strained voice, Illya managed to speak, “right, sir?”

Oleg nodded, turning to the hall. “Goodnight Kuryakin.”

Illya closed the door. He felt suffocated. His lungs wouldn’t fill with air. The heavy thumping of his heart was shattering him to pieces. His fingers tapped at his thighs as the words sunk into his skin like poison. Illya dropped to him knees, letting a low guttural growl escape past his lips. The scarlet red filled his eyes, and his memory was lost. 

After the red dissipates, Illya blinks around at the destroyed room. All of his belongings lay broken and shattered across the floor, his hands shaking and his shoulder throbbing. ‘Agent Teller…hopefully for us, she’s dead.’ His chest felt empty, the pieces of his stomach littering his insides. A low sob replaced his gut-wrenching cries. Tears fell hot and fast over his cheeks. Illya hadn’t realized just how much he wished that Oleg had captured her. It would have made it easier. He could save her if he knew where she was; if he knew she was somewhat safe. But no one knowing where she was, that made his rescue mission that much harder. She could actually be dead; his stomach wrenched at the thought, Gaby dead, cold and stiff somewhere in the dirt. Her beautiful brown eyes fogged over, lifeless. He shook his head, trying to push the thought from his mind. 

Illya stumbled to his bedroom, flinging open his suitcase and removed a small red and orange silk scarf from the hidden pocket. Illya clutched it tightly in his fist and pressing it to his mouth. He could not stop the thoughts from entering his mind, or the nauseating twisting in his stomach. He breathed as deep as he could in between choked breaths. The scarf still had the smell of her; Chanel No5, the perfume he had bought her in Paris, with the unmistakable tinge of vodka and motor oil. 

“не быть мертвым маленький (Don’t be dead little one),” Illya choked, “пожалуйста (Please)!”

Illya sat on the floor, clutching Gaby’s scarf. His breathing steadied more evenly in his chest, though his fingers twitched with anger and fear. Pulling himself up, he reached under his bed, pulling out a small tracking devise. He extended the antennae with his right hand and flipped on the switch. The screen illuminated a dark green color, and a bright green beacon radiated across the screen. Illya clutched the tracker, holding his breath. His eyes seared into the screen. He longed for it to show him what he was hoping for. As the bright green circle stretched outwards from the middle, a little green dot appeared. Illya’s heart jumped. Staring at the dot he crossed the location with a map. After locating the position of the dot, his heart fluttered and sank at the same time. 

Gaby was there, hopefully alive…inside the Kremlin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scarf Illya is holding is the one that Gaby had tied around her head in the beginning of the movie. 
> 
> But more on that later.


	4. Bloody Knuckles

Gaby lies on the cold hard ground. Her body aches, her head spins and her stomach growls. Her knuckles were bloody scared and scabbed. She wrapped them up in the thin wool blanket. She runs her thumb over her knuckles as she looks over the dark red flakes of blood that fall off her hand. She remembered the rough feel of Illya’s hands. She knew now why his hands felt the way they did. 

Oleg was kind enough to spare her most of the KGB intelligence training, since she was already proficient in multiple languages, engineering and communication technology. Plus it didn’t hurt that she was a trained British spy. But learning to fight their way was not something he wasn’t willing to compromise. She had been subjected to 16-hour non-stop training sessions in Sambo. She had expected that much, what she hadn't expected was taking on 4 Illya sized men at once for all of those 16 hours.

She had been through fight training before, but this was on a new level. She knew she was being tested. She knew they were instructed to cause as much physical pain as possible, without doing permanent damage. She knew her bruises would heal, the cuts on her arms legs and face would close. The swelling of her strained muscles and tendons would subside. She knew Oleg was testing her mind and body, hoping it would break, hoping she'd abandon her mission. But she was not going to give them the satisfaction. 

The only thing keeping her going was the thought of big blue eyes. Softened to see her like no one else. Gargantuan warms arms and hands wrapped around her body, and the steady drumming of his heart beat against her cheek. If she closed her eyes she could still smell his soft odor; the scent of fresh linen with a mix of woody and earthy tones. 

She had come to far to leave now. Oleg had promised to end the fight training soon, he's was furious with her when he discovered the disk only contained a few steps to her fathers work. This was her punishment. She knew it would upset him. She had memorized the steps necessary for enriching the uranium and building the bomb, then wiped most of the content on the disk before handing it off. He was trying to get back at her, but soon he'd grow eager and pull her out of this cold hell and put her to work in the lab. But for now, she was confined to this 8x8 cement block cell. 

Russia was colder than she had expected, even for the summer. The freezing hard ground was great for easing the swelling in her muscles, but not so great for keeping her limber and helping her sleep. She was amazed how anyone was able to sleep here; Russian or otherwise. She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep. She knew she'd never get a restful night here on the ground, but focusing on the ocean blue eyes behind her eyelids and the soft thrumming of a heart beat in her ears, she could at least have a restful series of day dreams, since sleep was not an option. 

_Paris, that’s where her mind went, the cool nip of the air encircling her, and the smell of delicious pastries filled her nostrils. It was the first time Illya had confided his desires to her. They were walking down the Seine, the frosty morning kept them close, shoulders and arms brushing. Gaby was wearing a beautiful cream-colored coat, her brown hair tied perfectly in a tight chignon. Her navy heels clicked softly against the pavement as Illya slowed his stride so she could keep up. His dark brown leather coat and navy trousers complemented hers. He wore a matching pageboy hat, which Gaby had purchased for him when his previous one had been lost during a chase a couple nights before. It made Gaby smile that he wore it._

_They walked silently together; it wasn’t abnormal for them. Gaby loved watching the commotion bustling around the softly lit city, and Illya seemed deep in thought. But this time, Illya seemed more tense than normal. Sensing that there was something wrong, Gaby wrapped her hand around his and gave him a little squeeze. She didn’t look at him, because she knew she didn’t need to. He smiled, staring ahead, and squeezed back._

_Suddenly, Illya stopped, pulling Gaby towards him. She looked surprised as she stared at him._

_“Illya? Was ist los?” Gaby pleaded, a shy smile curling at the corners of her mouth._

_Without a word Illya wrapped his hand behind Gaby’s head, and leaned down, pressing his lips against hers. Pulling back, “Gaby,” he started, “I…”  
His face looked pained. Gaby could see his eyes searching for the words his mouth couldn’t speak. She pressed her warm hand on his cheek. “It’s okay. Illya. You don’t need to say anything,” she reassured. “How about we go get a pastry?”_

_“Nett.” Illya took Gaby’s hands in his own. His eyes were deep blue and full of serious determination. “Gaby. I need you to know…that I choose you.”  
Shocked and confused, Gaby stared at him. Illya was always one to have conversations in his head, which always left Gaby confused and without all the information she needed. “Illya?” _

_“If the decision ever comes,” Illya affirmed, “I will choose you.”_

_Gaby searched his face, trying to determine many things; where this was coming from, what he was talking about, who would force this decision, why her? Her mind swirled as she gazed at him. She knew Illya loved her, and she loved him. It wasn’t a conversation they ever needed to have, not something they needed to say. Their relationship was a whirlwind of sideways glances, and things left unsaid, but in their hearts they always knew what they couldn’t say._

_He clutched her hands tights, and nodded, as if confirming his decision and ending the conversation all at once. Gaby could feel her heart flutter, there were so many things she wanted to ask, so many things she needed to know. But she knew that he was done, his feelings locked back into his mind, his heart. He broke their gaze and looked towards the pastry shop across the street._

_“Come on, I’m hungry,” he nodded grabbing her hand and pulling her across the street. ___

It was a memory Gaby had always held dear. It was the first time she ever knew just how much she meant to Illya, and in return, she finally realized just how much he meant to her. Although they kept their feelings on lock down, she allowed herself to dream of future with the powerful man she was trained to fear, to hate, to resent. 

As she lay on her cot, she could hear the hard footsteps approaching. The aching in her muscles seemed to grow more intense with each on coming footstep. She opened her eyes just in time to see the blinding light fill her cell. A large man stood in front of her, throwing a coat on top of her, “Вставай. Время идти.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Вставай. Время идти.-Get up. It’s time to go.
> 
> Was ist los?-What is wrong?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I meant to post these two chapters together, but I got distracted. 
> 
> This is the first "flash back", promise it'll give you a little more understanding to the first chapter.

“It’s not going to be easy,” he said handing her a thick brown folder. “In fact, it’s probably going to be, as Agent Solo would put it, a shit-show.” 

Waverly never swore — that’s what set him apart from agents, he was always very proper — but in this case, he was right. This mission was going to be a ‘shit-show’, but it was going to be worth it. That is, if she could pull it off. 

“Indeed it is,” Gaby smiled, looking over the top of the folder. Her eyes rested on the soft wrinkles encased around his eyes. “But, then again, when is one of our missions not?” 

He nodded in agreement and sipped at his tea. The steam fogged his glasses as his lips made a soft slurping sound. 

She turned back to the folder and continued reading. She needed to mentally prepare herself for what she was about to do. She needed to make sure that every detail was memorized. She needed to be able to do this mission in her sleep. 

“He cannot know,” Waverly stated, his expression stern and hard. He slowly lowered his cup to the saucer, clinking the fine china together.

Gaby gulped, nodding slowly. She knew that Illya’s temper was something of a concern, especially if he figured out what she was doing and why. She wasn’t only risking her life — wasn’t only risking his life — but she was risking the fragile solidarity of three very powerful nations, which in turn was risking the safety of the whole world. She started to doubt herself, the searing pain of bile rising in her throat. She swallowed it down, and took a deep breath. 

“I understand.” Gaby hated keeping secrets from Illya, but Waverly was right, it was in his best interest to keep him in the dark about this. “And Napoleon?”

Waverly raised his eyebrows, “Agent Solo knows what role he is to play.” 

“Good,” Gaby grinned, “As long as he knows his place, than maybe this won’t be such a “shit-show” after all.”

Waverly chuckled a little, “That remains to be seen Agent Teller. It’s not going to be easy to get a defected East German national turned British spy into the KGB.”

Waverly’s words sunk deep inside her, like a lead weight. She knew exactly what to do once she got in; it was the getting in that she was still fuzzy about. Waverly and Napoleon had told her that they would take care of it, but they hadn’t discussed any part of that plan to her. Every time she had queried about it, both of them would wave her off, like she didn’t exist.   
“Speaking of that, how do you plan to get me in?” She sounded more annoyed than she wanted to, but she couldn’t take the secrecy anymore. 

“Now Gabs,” came a familiar cool voice from behind her. “There is no need for that tone.”

Gaby turned slowly, glaring down her fellow agent. His perfect hair, clean pressed suit, and radiantly bright smile made her blood boil and calm her nerves at the same time. 

“I wouldn’t have a tone, Moppelchen, if you would tell me what you have planned,” she chided, a sneering smile sprawled across her face. “We are partners in this, after all.”

“Mopplechen?” Napoleon’s eyebrows were high on his forehead. “Really?”

Gaby shrugged. “What, I’m not allowed to give you a nickname? You don’t seem to mind the one Illya gave you.”

“That’s different. You just called me fat.”

Shrugging again, Gaby smiled. “It’s said in a loving way.”

Amidst the juvenile bickering, Waverly had moved from his spot, walking over to the window, peering out over the river in quiet concentration. Gaby could see the mild look of frustration knitted so carefully in his brows. His hands were held carefully behind his back, as he released a long a long low sigh. 

“Agent Solo?” Waverly’s voice was low and firm. “Rather than bickering about your pants size, I suggest you tell Agent Teller your plans for getting her into the KGB.” His tone made it very clear that this wasn’t a suggestion but more of a command. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he added.

“Right.” Solo nodded. “Welp, we uh...so.” His hand was rubbing the back of his head. Gaby could see the faint look of embarrassment in his expression. 

“What is it, Napoleon? Am I sleeping with Oleg or something?” Gaby pressed. She couldn’t understand why it was so hard for either of these men to tell her their idea. Normally Napoleon was so forthcoming with information, and Waverly always stuck to the facts, no matter how horrible they were. However, this time, neither one of them would look her in the eye. She figured either she was sleeping with every man in Russia, or she was going to have to do something unimaginably terrible. 

“No. Nothing like that, although, I’m sure he’d appreciate you better than his dowdy little wife,” he said, the smirk on his face returning. “I, well, Gabs I — lied to you, that day in Rome. Illya and I didn’t burn your father’s computer disk. I actually held onto it, hoping that one day I could use it to win my freedom.” Napoleon looked like a shamed child. His head was lowered and he peered at her through his eyebrows. 

Panic and fury rose hot a fast through her blood. Her eyes felt like they were going to bulge out of her skull. She turned her head to Waverly, hoping to find him snickering, as if this was some sort of sick, horribly executed joke. 

“You want me…” she began, returning her gaze back to Napoleon, her voice rising the longer she talked. “To give them my father’s work? To give KGB the information they need to enrich uranium? To give Russia the power to create an even more devastating nuclear bomb?” 

“Well, not all the information,” Waverly’s voice chimed from across the room. 

She spun her head to glare at him. 

His expression was calm and there was a small smile on his face. “That would be foolish. No, we are merely giving them part of the information they need. Agent Solo here has been kind enough to make a copy of the computer disk, only giving them the beginning steps.”

Gaby could feel her body shaking. She wasn’t sure if it was from anger at Napoleon for keeping the disk, anger at Waverly for wanting her to hand the information over to the wrong hands, anger for trusting that either man would have a good plan to get her in, or fear that she would now be helping everything she ever stood against. “Have you gone mad?” she shrieked, trying to keep her composure, but failing miserably. 

“It’s the only way that Oleg would allow you in. Trust me, we’ve tried to think of any other option, but all the others are too risky.” 

“Too risky?” Gaby could hear her own voice echoing in her ears. “You want to give a communist superpower hell bent on destroying the western world a verdammt road map to obliterating life as we know it, and everything else was ‘too risky’?” 

Her chest was heaving by now and her hands were curved into fists. She looked between the two men standing in front of her. She couldn’t believe what they were telling her. She knew now she’d rather sleep her way into the KGB. 

“Agent Teller,” Waverly’s voice had become firm, though his expression displayed more compassion and fear than sternness. “We are asking you to give only what is necessary for them to trust you. Besides, the information you give is not going to be in their hands long. You will give them the information, find Agent Kuryakin, and, together, you two will destroy or steal every bit of military weaponry that they have.”

“What?” Gaby could not be sure she heard him correctly. 

“Yes, this is not only a rescue mission, but an Intel mission.” Waverly waved his hand dismissing her and Napoleon’s stunned faces. “You really think we’d send you in just to retrieve your boyfriend?” 

Gaby could see Napoleon tense, his spine straightening and hands clenching. It was the same intensity she could feel radiating throughout her body. She imagined that if someone had taken a picture, they would look like identical twins. 

“You’re sending her in to steal information for you?” Napoleon demanded, his voice unraveling in a tangle of fear and anger. “It’s suicide!”

“No, Agent Solo, it is not. And besides, I’m not just sending her in. I’m sending you in as well,” Waverly finished with a smirk. 

Gaby and Napoleon exchanged glances. Gaby noticed the wild look in Napoleon’s eyes. He looked even more childish than he did before. 

“Not to mention, Agent Kuryakin will be joining you,” Waverly’s voice was as smooth as skin as he sipped his tea, which had now become cool enough to drink without slurping. “I am trusting that you three will be able to complete this mission without too many hiccups,” he confirmed with a soft familiar smile washing over his features. 

Waverly stood up behind his desk, placing the cup back onto the saucer. He nodded at Gaby. “Agent Teller, your briefing will be at 08:00. And Agent Solo, I believe you have a plane to catch,” he stated glancing at Napoleon and then the door. 

Napoleon and Gaby both nodded. He waited for Gaby to rise from her chair and they both headed out the door. Gaby looked at him out of the corner of her eye and mumbled as they walked out of Waverly’s office, “Es wird wirklich eine Scheißezeigen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Es wird wirklich eine Scheißezeigen-It really will be a shit-show
> 
> Moppelchen-little chubby or fatso-said in an endearing way. 
> 
> I want to thank blueincandescence for editing this for me!!!

**Author's Note:**

> "Verdammt"- God Dammit, or Dammit. 
> 
> So this is the first of a multi chapter work that I have been concocting in my head. I'm not sure how long it will be, but I can tell you that it has a similar style to that of the movie, mixed with a little Quentin Tarantino, meaning that I will be giving you bits of information in random orders. I promise to try and make it all make sense. PLEASE let me know if something doesn't make sense or seems out of place! I do not have a Beta to help me, or read over this before I post it, so I apologize for any and all mistakes and will fix them as soon as possible. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy. Feel free to leave me comments, or prompts. 
> 
> **Title due to the song Heathens by Twenty One Pilots, because it fit my ideas.


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